


Artistic Implications

by Chokopoppo



Series: Lost In Translation [2]
Category: Turn (TV 2014)
Genre: Alcohol, First Kiss, Invasion of Privacy, M/M, Self-Esteem Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-25
Updated: 2016-08-25
Packaged: 2018-08-11 00:18:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7867549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chokopoppo/pseuds/Chokopoppo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His hesitation about Andre’s privacy, sternly empowered by the fact that among Rivington’s clientele, Andre is the only real friend, only holds his fingers at bay for two minutes. Robert isn’t sure if he should be proud of that or not - he’s a better spy than he is a person.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Artistic Implications

**Author's Note:**

> I'm still doing this. I'm not kidding about this kayak, dude. I will cross the ocean in this thing.
> 
> Come yell at me on [tumblr](http://www.chokopoppo.com) about Towndre. Let's stay in this miserable kayak together.

The notebook is small, leather-bound, and well-loved - the spine is coming loose in places, revealing the binding underneath of glue and paper, smooth under Robert’s fingers. The leather itself, though presumably uniform at its initial purchase, now sits uneven, worn down to perfect softness across the cover but still scaly over the back. He knows the book well - he’s seen Andre clutching it to his chest enough times in the space of their short acquaintance to identify it in an instant. If he ever wanted a direct peek into Andre’s head, this is the window there.

His hesitation about Andre’s privacy, sternly empowered by the fact that among Rivington’s clientele, Andre is the only real _friend,_ only holds his fingers at bay for two minutes. Robert isn’t sure if he should be proud of that or not - he’s a better spy than he is a person. Well, there’s no turning back now - and once the thick pages are turning under his attention, it’s easy to push his trepidation away.

The first few pages yield nothing interesting - a “return to” address, a few scribbles of shapes with vague but undisciplined shading techniques, a few short words scribbled out past any point of recognition - but the further in Robert delves, the more he begins to dig up. He feels like a tomb robber, searching the dead for paltry scraps of wealth or gold. Full sketches emerge, of an unfamiliar city square, streets with crowded claustrophobic houses crammed together, birds, sheep milling in the countryside - and then a woman. She is very beautiful, he notes in a detached, clinical sense. There is something wrong about the eyes. Perhaps Andre does not know how to draw them.

More sketches - dancers, long-legged and spinning. A blueprint for a stage. A page of writing, awkward stanzas in poetry about love. He recognizes the verse - Andre published it in the paper a few weeks back. _’The star of the evening now bids thee retire; / Accurs’d be its orb and extinguish’d its fire! / For it shows me my rival, prepared to invade / Those charms which at once I admired and obey’d…’_ It’s not the full piece. The rest must be elsewhere, in a more personal journal. He almost wants to curse. Damn, but it would have been good to have been left his _journal_ , instead.

The woman again. Robert feels a minute pang - whatever had been wrong with the sketch before has certainly been fixed here. She is beautiful again, this time soft and human, her eyes full of longing, her hair loose around her face. She looks something like Philomena, but he is gaining suspicion that she is of a higher caliber. Whoever this is, Andre must love her. Otherwise, why bother perfecting her gaze artistically? A reminder of a distant, familiar woman. And at the bottom of the page, the letters _’P.S.’_

Landscapes and doodles disappear as the pages go on. P.S., whoever she is, begins to fill the majority of the pages, sometimes in pristine dress and sometimes in nothing at all. Robert notes with a thankful heart that even in the most revealing art, there is at least nothing pornographic or erotic about her nudity, just a divine radiance clearly inspired by paintings of angels. Not for the first time, he wonders what sort of man Andre is.

After maybe thirteen or fourteen in a row, the pages begin to display diversity again. City scenes sprout back up, this time of York City - the market, the soldiers in formation, and, almost flatteringly, the clientele of Rivington’s, from the brickwork of the establishment to the occupants inside. Robert feels a secret spark of vanity and pride as he recognizes himself in not one, but two sketches - the first, a full-bodied scene, himself in the background pouring madeira into an officer’s glass in profile, and the second a focused biopic, perhaps even of the first night they met, sitting at the draughts board and smiling humorlessly at Rivington in his confusion. Partially flustered but mostly happy, he flips the page.

His own eyes, alone on the page, staring back at him. And below,

  
_'How weak is my rage his fierce joy to control._   
_A kiss from thy body shoots life to his soul_   
_Thy frost, too, dissolv'd in one current is run_   
_And all thy keen feelings are blended in one.’_   


He slams the sketchbook shut and drops it like a hot coal, burning to the touch. It isn’t fast enough - the heat rises from his stomach, through his chest, up his neck and flowers on his face.

The sketchbook is placed in the drawer of lost items behind the counter the next morning, when Rivington finds it haphazardly left on one of the tables before opening. He berates Robert for not picking it up the night previously, and as always, with Rivington, Robert lets himself suffer a certain amount of jolly abuse for his mistake. He admits he knows the owner, but will keep it in the cafe until such a time as he can return it.

He does not open it again.

~~

Almost four days pass before Andre returns to Rivington’s, now at a much more polite hour in the afternoon. Robert finds himself relieved, but makes no immediate effort to begin conversation. As always, he lets Andre come to him.

Maybe possessed by an unfamiliar spirit of humility, or maybe just embarrassed by the events of several nights previous, but Andre doesn’t approach right away. Instead, he dallies, making his presence at significant social circles around the room, uncharacteristically talkative despite all reason to the contrary - if there had been serious news, Rivington would have spent several hours crowing it directly into Robert’s ear. As it stands, he can’t puzzle out any serious topic which Andre could be discussing. Small talk, then. Now and again, at uneven intervals, Andre throws one of those pensive, unsmiling little looks towards the bar, presumably in an attempt to catch Robert’s eye - but Robert is busy with work, and catches them late, if at all. If this is aggravating to Andre, he doesn’t notice. He has a job to do.

In all, it takes maybe twenty minutes before Andre approaches, his face a mask of anticipatory nerves and timely regret. Robert acknowledges him with a glance and a nod, continues rubbing the dregs of madeira out of a glass. “Major Andre,” he says after a moment, “I’m glad to see you returned to better health.”

There’s a flinch in response. “About that,” he replies after a moment, “I returned here this afternoon to - that is, I feel I have done you a great disservice of recent.” He searches Robert’s face for some answer, but whatever it is, he doesn’t seem to find it. And then a sigh, and then, quite plainly: “I’m sorry.”

“You don’t need to apologize,” he replies, though it occurs to him that it may be a little too late for such statements, “the effects of commotion are often difficult to understand. I admit I am well acquainted with them, myself.”

“And yet an apology is necessary anyway,” Andre says, pressing on, eyes falling briefly to the counter between them before returning to Robert’s face. That apologetic smile has returned, he notes, now with a guarded look about it. “In my…rattled state, I may have been behaving only under the effects of a bruised mind, but that does not justify the discomfort I am…quite certain my actions have caused. I can assure you that, though we both know in the right mind I would never - “

“Major,” Robert says, cutting him off, “I’m not upset. Nor was I particularly discomforted, as in the absence of company, my reputation had no injury to sustain - reputation, I believe, being the root of all discomfort.” He raises his eyebrows, and in spite of the tension Andre is carrying about his shoulders, there flashes a hint of a smile in response. “However addled you may have been in attempting to communicate with me, I could at least glean the deeper seed of your sentiments, which was one of true affection in friendship. Perhaps for that, I should thank you,” he admits, and smiles despite himself, “for such proclamations are rare, and in sobriety hard to discern for their truth.”

Whether it is the content of Robert’s statement or simply the sheer, uncharacteristic volume of dialogue, Andre falls silent as he blinks almost owlishly at his companion. Teeth and lips part for a moment, then shutter back. Robert, for his part, feels socially exhausted, and quickly turns his attention back to the glass in his hand - less for any remaining madeira to be scrubbed away and more to break contact with wide, blue eyes now boring down on his neck. In the past few weeks he has grown progressively more unused to telling the truth, and now it feels foreign in his mouth. He knows - he _knows_ Andre is a liar, too, that his word is only as trustworthy as - for God’s sake, as _Abraham Woodhull’s_ \- but somehow the barefaced reminder of what he is, brought on by his _own honesty_ \- 

“Townsend,” Andre says, and Robert meets his gaze at last, face forced into impassivity, “thank you.”

And it could have been a quiet moment, had they not been at the most popular coffee shop in York City, at the most crowded hour of the day. As it is, there’s the sound of breaking glass, and swearing, and Robert nods politely to excuse himself - and as he glances back to Andre, his eyes have gone dark again, and his smile is guarded.

Robert feels guilty, and cannot explain why.

~~

Maybe out of guilt, maybe out of a strange residual spite for his business partner, Robert encourages Andre to hang back after closing, despite Rivington’s protests. There is a short backroom spat without a lot of volume or vitriol but a nasty mess of raised eyebrows and unfortunate implications before Rivington yields, more interested in attending some society party than continuing an awkward conversation with an unreadable quaker. He gives Robert the keys, reminds him to lock up (as though he’s ever forgotten before), bids Andre a very extravagant goodnight, and sweeps out the front door. There’s a moment of stillness.

“Is it wrong of me to say I have never liked that man?” Andre says after a moment, and Robert smiles despite himself, hides it in his coffee.

“I must say it only improves my opinion of you,” he replies, “perhaps the most sensible thing for us to have in common.”

Andre laughs at that - not full-bodied, because even after four glasses of madeira, Andre is too self-controlled to let any emotion take hold of him entirely, but with less of the polite, practiced softness so familiar to his countenance. “Is he like that in private as well as when he is trying to sell something?” He asks when his breath returns, grinning lopsidedly, eyes sparkling. Robert feels something twist in his gut, and pointedly ignores it.

“He is like that _always,_ ” he confesses, eliciting mirth from his inebriated companion once again, “and more pointedly, he has no sense for when his presence and contact are undesired.”

There is a pause of companionable silence - then, Andre reaches across the bar and takes Robert’s unoccupied hand in his own. “Townsend - I am happy my - behavior from before - did not ruin this.” He speaks with the measured pauses of a curious child picking at a scab, checking the severity of a healing wound. Robert, for his part, wraps cautious fingers around Andre’s palm, looks back into him.

One moment. He allots himself that.

Then he says “speaking of which,” and releases his grip on his friend, moves down the bar to the small drawer in which the sketchbook rests, retrieves it with an air of exhausted triumph, “you left this here that night. I thought I’d hang onto it until you were recovered again.” He circles around the bar to the front, passes it back to its rightful owner, leans against the bar in closer, warmer proximity. Andre receives it with bridled pleasure.

“Thank you,” he says, smiling, flips through the pages like a man greeting an old friend - then glances back to Robert, one eyebrow raised in false humor. “You didn’t read anything, did you?” It sounds like a joke - it ought to be a joke. It could have been one, if they weren’t both dangerously aware of the real threats wriggling underneath.

“Only so far as to find your address and name on the first page,” Robert lies easily, sees Andre relax into an honest smile, “and maybe you shouldn’t think to thank me, seeing as I only kept it here to save myself a walk across York City at all.”

Andre laughs again, always composed, always controlled, and Robert finds himself laughing too, quietly, easily. When he glances to Andre again, the major is grinning, watching him. Sparkling, maybe. “There’s that smile,” he says, “I’ve been looking for it all night.”

Robert snorts. “Don’t practice those lines with me,” he says, “you’d be in terrible trouble if I took you seriously.”

“Sir, you offend me,” Andre replies, though as far as Robert can tell, he’s joking, “propriety dictates you accept a compliment paid by a friend, especially in social rungs.”

“Propriety has no place in the house of friendship, and likewise society ought to be left by the door. Anyway, I have no use for a dishonest or waylaid compliment. There is nothing particularly desirable about my outward visage. I have _that_ on good authority.” Robert laughs. Andre does not.

“That seems unfair,” he says. “To rely on words meant for - “ he pauses, struggling for words, then changes tack. “Who would - what is there, possibly, to - “ he struggles again, flails. Robert takes pity.

“I have been informed,” he interrupts, and watches as Andre’s shoulders sag in something like conversational relief, “that humor is…jarring on me, due to a natural predilection to stoicism. Supposedly, the effect is one that either suggests mockery and contempt, or otherwise has the same effect of a foreign body in infected flesh.” Andre’s brow knits in concern, or frustration, or maybe just disbelief, and Robert raises an eyebrow. “Besides which, I despise it myself. It lends a certain loss of control, of which I have never been fond."

“I find that rather insulting to you and frankly provocative to my own sensibilities,” Andre says after a moment, having mulled this reasoning and clearly finding it lacking. He leans jauntily against the bar, focuses his gaze. "No, the only thing I can find to despise about your smiles are their rarity, as one might despise warmth in the winter only for its inevitable departure and shortness. Had I any way to ensure myself a view of one every time we met, I should find nothing but brilliance in them.”

Robert’s smile refuses to fade, no matter how he pushes against it, so he glances away quickly. “I think you may be concussed still,” he replies after a moment, but jovially. 

“What, can a man not say a kind word to a friend in sobriety?” Andre asks, staring intently, “if anything, the lessons I have learned in only a few days of loosened posture and sophistication have taught me that I do not value my friends highly enough. Not the important friends, anyway.”

“And am I to believe I am so important? I confess I have never, before this conversation, given myself nor indeed received from any other man such accolades.”

Andre’s hand reaches out, brushes the side of Robert’s shoulder, half unconscious and half reverent. “Then you have been cheated,” he says gently, “for in your quiet dignity and modesty you still outshine all beauty in America.”

His mouth has gone dry. “Beauty,” he repeats, soft. It is not a question, and it does not require an answer save the way Andre’s eyes flutter in response. They are standing very close now, he realizes. If he wanted, he could loop his arm around Andre’s waist, pull him close - instead, he waits, watches him flicker like a resilient fire in an unforgiving gale. The calmest man in the British army, cracking under nerves, almost shivering when their eyes meet.

It is quiet at last. Fingers ghost over Robert’s neck. “If I have misunderstood - “ Andre begins, but for the first time, Robert does not wait for him to move first.

The kiss is shallow, soft, but he can feel Andre flutter, sigh, release as his hand catches hold of Robert’s shoulder, cool fingers twitching against his skin like they’re searching for a pulse. Unconsciously, he guides Andre against his own chest as their lips part, hands resting on his partner’s hips. For a precious few moments, the only stir in the air is Andre’s warm breaths landing soft on his skin.

“Townsend,” he whispers, and Robert’s eyes, having fallen closed in the moment of contact, part ever so barely in acknowledgement, “who are you?”

“Funny,” Robert replies, “I often ask myself the same question about you.”


End file.
